Cry Wolf by Tami Hoag

growing up in the South. She had listened to him tell stories on public radio once or twice and remembered not the tales he had told, but his voice. Low and rich and smooth, the voice of old Southern culture. Slow and comforting, it had the power to lull and woo and reassure all at once.
    “He moved back here a few months ago,” Savannah explained in a hushed tone of conspiracy.
    Her gaze was still directed at Cooper, her expression masked by her sunglasses. She trailed a fingertip up and down the side of the sweating glass of Coke Marvella had brought, a movement that reminded Laurel of a cat twitching its tail in pique.
    “His wife has Alzheimer's. He brought her back here from New York and put her in St. Joseph's Rest Home. I hear she doesn't know her head from a hole in the ground.”
    “Poor woman,” Laurel murmured.
    Savannah made a noise that sounded more like indigestion than agreement.
    The pie arrived, steaming hot with vanilla ice cream melting down over the sides to puddle on the plate. Laurel ate hers with relish. Savannah picked and fiddled until the ice cream had completely returned to its liquid state and the pie was a mess of pinkish lumps and crust that resembled wet cardboard.
    “Is something wrong?”
    She started at the sound of Laurel's voice, dragging her gaze away from Cooper, who had yet to acknowledge her presence. “What?”
    “You're not eating your pie. Is something wrong?”
    She flashed a brittle smile and fluttered her hands. “Not a bit. My appetite just isn't what I thought it was, that's all.”
    “Oh, well . . .” Laurel shot a considering glance at Cooper, huddled over his writing. “I was thinking I would just run up the street to the hardware store. Aunt Caroline needs a new garden hose. You wanna come?”
    “No, no, no,” she said hastily. “You go on. I'll meet you at the car. I'm going to have Madame Collette box up one of these pies and take it home for supper.”
    Savannah forked up a soggy bite of pie and watched as Laurel ducked through the doorway, leaving her alone with the man who had effortlessly snared her heart and seemed determined to break it.
    Anger shimmered through her in a wave of heat, pushing her toward recklessness. She wanted him to look at her. She wanted to see the same kind of hunger in him that she felt every time she saw him, every time she thought of him. She wanted to see the same raw longing burning in his eyes. But he just sat there, writing, oblivious of her, as if she weren't any more important than a table or a chair.
    She rose slowly, smoothing her short skirt, her every movement sensuous, sinuous. For all the good it did her. Cooper went on scribbling, head bent, brows drawn, square jaw set.
    Slowly she sauntered across the room, stiletto heels clicking on the linoleum floor. She tossed her sunglasses down beside his notebook, and slowly raised the hem of her skirt, inch by inch, revealing smooth, creamy thighs and a thicket of neatly trimmed dark curls at the juncture of those thighs.
    Cooper bolted in his chair, dropping his pen and nearly overturning the pitcher of tea at his elbow. “Jesus H. Christ, Savannah!” The words tore from his throat in a rough whisper. He glanced automatically toward the door for witnesses.
    “Don't worry, honey,” Savannah purred, sliding the fabric back and forth across her groin. “There's nobody here but us adulterers.”
    He reached across the table with the intent of pulling the skirt down to cover her, but she inched away from him and slowly moved around the end of the table, her back to the door.
    “Like what you see, Mr. Cooper?” she murmured in a voice like honey, wicked mischief flashing in her pale blue eyes. “It's not on the menu, but I'd give you a taste if you asked me real nice.”
    Blowing out a sigh, Cooper sat back and watched as she lowered one knee onto the chair beside his. The initial shock had subsided, and his usual air of calm settled over him as comfortably as the old